


a replica of life

by MercuryM



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Magic, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-08-01
Packaged: 2018-12-08 20:50:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11654475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryM/pseuds/MercuryM
Summary: The barely-seen crack had slowly filled with something liquid-like, shiny under the lights. Clarke went to take a closer look, convinced that her eyes were deceiving her, but then a tiny drop of that not-quite-liquid slid down the lower part of the leaf, through the curls of hair where it seemed to freeze for a moment before dropping on the sculpture’s left cheek, right below the eye.Her chest felt heavy and her ribcage wanted to cave in, to collapse under the tension.This is not real,this isnotreal, she chanted to herself, shaking hand reaching out and touching the tear-like stain, leaving finger swipes behind.Clarke rubbed her fingers together, spreading the gold-colored liquid with a horrified fascination. It was oily and had no scent. And it kept coming out of that broken leaf, a steady golden stream of not-liquid that had no end, no beginning.





	a replica of life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [tanamoril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tanamoril/gifts).



> For Sara who encouraged me to write this fic when she saw me reblogging [this](https://ahmren.tumblr.com/post/161136003326/writing-prompt-s-you-accidentally-crack-a) prompt. It doesn't follow exactly the prompt but I hope you still like it!  
>   
> Special thanks to Kayla for her enthusiasm and feedback on this. This is not really proofread; as such please pardon any mistakes, I'll try to weed them out at a later date. Rated T for language.

replica  
/ˈrɛplɪkə/

noun  
1\. a copy or reproduction of a work of art produced by the maker of the original or under his or her supervision.  
2\. any close or exact copy or reproduction.

 

 

Museums reminded Clarke of fairy tales - sometimes they were too real and other times they weren’t real enough.

Every room, every exhibit told its own story. There was so much history there, so much forgotten blood and dust, souls put to rest and darkness pushed back by the reverence of the new generations. There was magic in the brush strokes used in the paintings, fairy dust glittering off relics old enough to have seen the fall and rise of Gods that were now goodnight stories, whispered by those who still remembered them.

There was pain and hope, beauty and fear, all muted and broken through the prism of time, and Clarke loved to sit on one of the benches and close her eyes, to soak it all up until her chest felt too tight and her fingers itched to grab a brush and let her feelings spill across a canvass.

It felt like a release of the soul, a catharsis that left her raw and naked, sensitive at the the tips of every nerve in her body. It was scary but exhilarating, a high that soothed her mind and strengthened her heart, and let her move forward with barely a hitch.

It was that calm that she was searching now and the reason why she was soaking up the play of shadows across Monet’s works.

Clarke couldn’t really say which painter was her favourite or even which period, but she found something enchanting in Monet’s bridges and forests, in the hidden nooks of flowers that beckoned her with their colourful petals and the promise of secrets. Strangely enough his paintings made her think of _The Neverending Story_ , like Fantasia was awaiting her arrival just around the corner.

She was just starting to feel the insistent yet pleasant feeling to paint spreading through her chest and down her arms when loud giggling and clapping in the hallway connecting the different exhibitions snapped her out of her thoughts. A group of boys, teenagers by the looks of it, were busy pushing one another and making inappropriate gestures. One of the museum guards gave them a stern look but that was all.

 _Seriously?_ Clarke grimaced and pushed off the bench, somewhat annoyed by their behaviour.

She clicked her tongue and wrapped her scarf around her neck, slinging her coat over her arm as she reluctantly made her way out of the museum. Deciding to bypass the randy group of boys, least she did something childish like try to trip one or two of them, she cut through the sculpture exhibition, barely sparing a glance at the familiar lines of the Ancient Greek period.

Clarke knew the way to the exit by heart, having spent countless days wandering through the museum, and she barely paid attention to where she walked, thrusting her feet to lead her in the right direction. Which was why she nearly walked right into one of the exhibits.

“What the—?” She came to an abrupt stop, her nose mere inches from smacking into the stone sculpture.

Her heart was beating a wild tattoo behind her ribs and the adrenaline made everything seem a bit too sharp. Clarke put a hand over her chest and tried to calm down, tugging at her scarf that felt like a snake wounded tight around her neck.

The statue wasn’t a familiar one, at least it wasn’t there last week when she had visited the museum. It depicted a naked man looking up to the sky. He was kneeling, one leg curled up as if he was about to rise, fractured chain links dangling from his wrists, a leaf wreath donning his hair. The details on his hair were immaculate - every curl was given depth and place, a mess of waves that framed a strong jaw and full lips. His eyes were closed and Clarke spent more time than she would’ve liked to admit admiring his lashes. And then there were the freckles; a big cluster of them spread out under his eyes and across his nose, fading out down his cheeks and neck.

Freckles and eyelashes on a statue? Most unusual, no matter which period this was from. That said—

She circled the sculpture to look for a placard or something but to no avail. Huh, now _that_ was definitely unusual.

And there was something wrong with the sculpture. _No_ , Clarke shook her head, _not wrong_ , but for some reason it felt like it didn’t belong, not here; like it was about to burst in full technicolor the moment Clarke took her eyes off it and walk off as if it was never here in the first place.

Clarke let her fingers trace the grooves of the leaf wreath. That was the thing, wasn’t it? The sculpture felt present, _alive_ , and the museum was all about the past.

Her phone vibrated in her pocket and Clarke cursed, jerking her hand away and wrestling with her jeans to get it out. But in her hurry she smacked the back of her hand against one of the dainty leaves and she heard it crack on the impact.

 _Oh fuck_.

Phone forgotten, Clarke leaned in to get a closer look and hoovered her fingers over the clean break, praying that she could set the leaf back in place without damaging it further. She didn’t dare breathe as she gently nudged it back in place, the crack barely visible under the florescent light of the room.

She stood like that for few more moments, making sure it wasn’t going to move, and then took few steps back before allowing herself to breathe again, her fingers jittery with nerves.

“I’m dead, I’m so fucking dead.” A quick look around assured her that nobody had seen the atrocity that had happened, yet she couldn’t shake off the feeling that somebody was _watching_ her every move.

Her phone vibrated again, Wells’ name flashing across the screen.

“You’re the worst,” she said as a greeting, wiping the sweat off her brows with a grimace.

“Hello to you too, sunshine. Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed today?”

“Fuck off.” Her tone lacked heat and Wells laughed, well accustomed by now with her bad moods to take the words to heart.

“Seriously though, what’s wrong? Weren't you going to the museum?”

“I-uh,” she cleared her throat, her voice coming out higher than she had intended, “might have broken off a piece of a sculpture?”

A moment of silence and then, “I’m not even surprised to be honest, that sounds exactly like something you would do.”

“Hey!” He laughed again and Clarke scoffed. “It wasn’t on purpose, not that I would ever do something—”

“Uh, need I remind you of—”

“—like that.” She continued on, ignoring his spluttering. “My phone vibrated in my jeans and I wasn’t expecting it so I might have overreacted a little.”

“You call that a _little_?”

“You’re an awful friend and I’m hanging up.”

“Wait, don’t, I’m sorry. I just wanted to ask if we’re still on for—”

But Clarke wasn’t listening to him, her hand lowering the phone from her ear and clicking on the end call button as if in a daze, her attention entrapped by the broken leaf.

The barely-seen crack had slowly filled with something liquid-like, shiny under the lights. Clarke went to take a closer look, convinced that her eyes were deceiving her, but then a tiny drop of that not-quite-liquid slid down the lower part of the leaf, through the curls of hair where it seemed to freeze for a moment before dropping on the sculpture’s left cheek, right below the eye.

Her chest felt heavy and her ribcage wanted to cave in, to collapse under the tension. _This is not real, this is_ not _real_ , she chanted to herself, shaking hand reaching out and touching the tear-like stain, leaving finger swipes behind.

Clarke rubbed her fingers together, spreading the gold-colored liquid with a horrified fascination. It was oily and had no scent. And it kept coming out of that broken leaf, a steady golden stream of not-liquid that had no end, no beginning.

She could only watch with horrified fascination as more and more crack appeared in the statue where the not-liquid flowed, painting it that glittering gold and dripping on the floor, pooling around the base of the statue with speed that shouldn’t have been possible. When the gold reached the tips of Clarke’s shoes, she jerked back, fascination turning to panic as the not-liquid followed suit. Taking few more steps back proved futile and Clarke clutched her coat in front of her as if it was a shield.

The broken leaf trembled under the pressure of the liquid and with barely a sound fell completely off, skidding to a halt a foot or so from Clarke.

She didn’t know why she did it but she carefully balanced on her toes and grabbed at the leaf before the liquid could swallow it. It was like somebody had attached strings to her arm and was admonition her moves - her fist clenched tight around the broken piece even as she wanted nothing more but to toss it far, far away.

“Hey,” Clarke snapped her head around to see the museum guard coming her way, his face scrunched up in obvious concern, “are you okay?”

“I—”, the not-liquid was straining up, leaning towards her clenched fist, as if it _knew_ what was hidden there.

Yeah, no, she was out of here.

Her coat slipped from her arm as she broke into a run, bypassing the bewildered guard and plowing through the boys from earlier, tunnel vision set on the exit.

Something behind her broke in thousand little pieces and Clarke ran faster.

 

* * *

 

“Well, you don’t have a fever.”

Clarke scowled at Wells and batted his hand away from her forehead, though she didn’t complain when he went back to stroking her hair.

She let her feet dangle from the side of the couch and leaned into his side, hugging her pillow closer to her chest.

“I wasn’t hallucinating, Wells, I know what I saw.”

His look turned calculating and he tucked a piece of her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t say you were but I do admit it would have made me feel— better.” He frowned. “As your best friend it’s my duty to let you know that you sound crazy.”

She clutched the pillow harder, gaze trained on the broken leaf sitting innocently on her coffee table. “I know I do. That’s why I called you.” Her fingers and palms were still streaked with gold from holding onto the piece  - it refused to wash out no matter how many times Clarke scrubbed her hands with soap.

Wells sighed and resumed raking his fingers through her hair. “We’ll go tomorrow and check it out. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for this whole thing. It might be a new sort of exhibition that they’re still in the process of setting up.”

She nodded her head vigorously even if in her heart she knew that this was not the case. Wells noticed and kissed the top of her head, squeezing her tighter.

Clarke had no idea how much time had passed without them not moving an inch, mushed against one another as if they were five again and sharing a bed after a bad dream. It felt nice to know that they hadn’t lost that closeness, that unconditional love and affection they had for one another.

She was dozing on and off, lulled to security by Wells’ warm body against her, when she heard few sharp knocks against her door. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and slipped from Wells’ hold - he had fallen asleep, head thrown back and supported by the couch.

There was another series of knocks and Clarke groaned, getting to her feet. Wells had said something about ordering food before they got to the couch so Clarke figured it was just the delivery guy.

As an afterthought she slipped the broken leaf into her pajamas’ pocket and went to open the door—

It wasn’t the deliver person.

The man appeared to be in his late twenties, his dark hair a nest of curls that fell over his brown eyes and caught on his eyelashes every time he blinked. He had an expressive strong jawline and a cleft in his chin. His shoulder were wide and the coat he was wearing was an ill-fit, definitely on the smaller side and not fully closing in the front. Her eyes fell to his chest and her fingers spasmed by her side. He was naked underneath the coat and covered in dried up gold trickles that disappeared under the belt that held the coat together, and re-appeared down his legs. He was bare-footed and covered in fine dust, small pieces of marble caught in his leg hair.

He looked exactly like the sculpture from the museum, down to his stupid freckles and the half-hidden gold leaf wreath perched on his head.

In a flash, Clarke twisted her hand around the door handle and tried to slam the door in his face but he was faster and jammed his arm in between the door and the doorframe and forced the door to open again.

She glared at him, trying to summon up her anger even as anxiousness froze her insides. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“I’m afraid it’s not a joke.” He smiled at her but the smile didn’t reach his eyes and Clarke contemplated yelling for Wells.

The living statue-stranger- _whatever the hell he was_ seemed to sense her discomfort and leaned against the door frame, somehow making his presence seem smaller, not as important. “I believe you have something of mine.” He tilted his head to one side and Clarke caught a glimpse of his wreath and the broken leaf piece - the other half to the one sitting in her pocket.

Instinctively Clarke reached for her pocket, letting her fingers tangle in her shirt at the last possible moment, trying to make the movement intentional. She had no illusions that she had succeeded; if anything his smile turned sharper, his eyes glinting with satisfaction.

He let it go. “There’s also the life debt, of course.”

“Life debt?” she echoed hollowly, her mind reeling, still having hard time to grasp everything that was happening.

“Yes,” he grimaced and crossed his arms in front of his chest. He looked uncomfortable and Clarke was met with a scowl, completely at odds with the charming smile attempt she was treated with just minutes ago. “Do you have any idea how long I have been sitting in that museum? It gets dreadfully boring after a while, I’ll tell you that. Though I do admit to it being an improvement over my last residence. At least here people seem to appreciate art.”

Clarke blanked on that, eyes straying from his naked visible chest to the bulging of his crossed arms and the veins that went up his arms. Art. Definitely art. It was then that Clarke realised that she was looking at _her_ coat.

“That’s my coat,” she blurted out, furrowing her brows. It was her favourite coat on top of that.

He seemed bewildered by her sudden change of topic and looked down at himself. “Well, yeah, I don’t mind walking around naked but people in this century have a weird relationship with nakedness.”

“Who the fuck are you?”

He laughed, and for God’s sake, even his teeth were pretty, straight and white, and a bit too sharp for her liking. “People usually ask _what_ I am.”

That threw her off. _Was this guy on drugs or something?_ Nothing was making sense.

“Yeah, no, pretty sure I’m better off not knowing that.” Amusement was pouring out of him like the gold had been pouring out of -his?-  statue earlier and Clarke really didn’t appreciate being the butt of a joke she didn’t understand. “Look, I don’t care what drugs you’re on, nor do I plan on listening to you anymore so you can take all of— _that_ ,” she waved at his _everything_ , “and just go home.”

“Sorry, princess, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

Her fingers drummed on the back of her door. “Oh? And why’s that?”

He shrugged and she heard the snapping of threads. Goodbye coat. “Life debt?”

“Okay, where are the cameras?” She poked her head out of her door, looking around her hallway. “This has gone on long enough, just come out and be done with it.”

Silence was all she got in return.

“Oh dear, you’re a non-believer, aren’t you?”

“If you’re asking if I go to Church, then the answer is no. God and I have an agreement - he doesn’t mess with my life and I try to be a decent person without blaming him for my bad decisions.”

“We’re going to have so much fun, Clarke Griffin.”

She jerked back and let go of the door, needing to put some space between them. “I never told you my name.”

He straightened up, letting go of all pretense and pinning her in place with his gaze. The amusement was gone and Clarke was faced with intensity and seriousness that robbed the air from her lungs. He was making her nervous (and if she was honest with herself, a bit turned on).

He started moving towards her, every step making the air feel heavier, tenser. The smell of ozone assaulted her nose and she could almost taste the sharp sting of electricity on her tongue. The shadows of the room elongated and swarm around him, his eyes a glowing amber against the darkness.

“Like it or not, princess, we’re stuck together for the time being, and until the life debt is paid in full I’ll be sticking around. That I swear to you.”

Foreboding was spreading through Clarke’s chest and legs, leaving her arms shaking. She wanted to brush it all off, to call the cops and have nothing to do with this guy, but somehow she knew she wasn’t dreaming or hallucinating. This felt _real_ the same way his sculpture had felt real at the museum.

And that frightened her the most. Marble brought to life.

Where did that leave her?

It was at that moment that Wells decided to show up, yawning and pulling at his shirt. He froze mid-yawn, his eyes widening as he looked from Clarke to the mystery guy and back around.

“That’s not the Thai food.” Clarke could see the gears turning in his head even as he tried to pinch himself awake. “Did Raven send you another stripper?”

That seemed to diffuse the stifling atmosphere. The guy’s smile was all teeth as he snapped his fingers and suddenly he was fully dressed with a soft blue henley, dark jeans and combat boots. “Worry not, Wells Jaha, your friend is in good hands.”

Clarke took few steps back until her back collided with Wells’ chest. “That’s really creepy, you know?”

The fucking leaf wreath was still on his head, and _nothing made sense_.

“I think I need to sit,” her voice was faint, face pale as Wells squeezed her fingers in solidarity.

Wells pulled her back towards the couch. “Then let’s sit.” His palm was clammy against hers and she never had been more grateful to have him by her side. Wells was just as freaked out if not more, yet here he was, taking the charge in her place. “ _What_ are you?”

The stranger shot her a look as if to say ‘ _See? Now that’s what normal people start off with_ ’. Clarke barely resisted the urge to stick her tongue out to him.

“Why don’t we start with something— simpler, like my name. You can call me— Bellamy.” Bellamy nodded his head, liking how the name rolled off his tongue. “Yes, let’s go with Bellamy.”

Clarke had so many questions that her head started to hurt. _What is your real name? Why me? How the fuck did you find me? What are you? Can you go away? What else can you conjure? Where did you came from? Why_ me _? Why—_ But they were all stuck in her throat, disinclined to be given voice. She was afraid of the answers.

Maybe Bellamy was right. Maybe they weren’t ready for something as daunting as that.

He smirked at her, as if he had heard her thoughts, and Clarke decided the fuck with it all.

“What—”

“Uh,” a new voice interrupted her. “This is 413B, right?” All faces turned to the newcomer as she shifted in place, hesitantly lifting her delivery bag. “I have Thai delivery for one Wells Jaha?”

Wells sighed and got up to pay for their food, taking caution to circle around Bellamy and try not to take his eyes off of him.

Bellamy simply made a show of rolling his shoulders, unbothered by Wells’ suspicious glare, and came to sit in the armchair next to the couch, giving her his full attention.

“So much fun,” he echoed. And Clarke—

Clarke buried her face in her hands and groaned. She should have stayed in bed this morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Before anybody asks - no, for the time being I have no plans on continuing this, one of the reasons being that this simply has no plot, like at all. To begin with, it was supposed to be _way_ shorter and aside from the few scenes you read above, I really have no clear direction in mind as to how to go on with it. If I ever do, I'll probably turn it into a non-liner series that will tell about the adventures and trouble an exasperated-but-also-loving-it!Clarke has to deal with now that a scowly-attractive-teddybear-at-heart-maybe-God!Bellamy has brought to her life with cameos from Wells and the rest of the main gang. (Is anybody interested in reading that?)  
>   
>  But as it is, I prefer to focus my attention and energy on writing my giveaway fics, dealing with all the published (and not) WIPs gathering dust in my folders and managing the Bellarke Fanfiction Awards. Speaking of those, right now is the Nomination period for the Awards - if you have a valid tumblr/twitter/ao3 account you can [nominate](http://bellarkefanfictionawards.tumblr.com/post/163448441277/nominations-the-time-has-come-starting-today) your favourite fics, authors and creators! It's a great opportunity to show some love and support for the lovely content this fandom produces despite being such a mess.  
>   
> Anyway,  
> review and kudos are greatly appreciated.  
>  **\- M.**


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